Sometimes a mother just knows. Long before the test results or the monitors, before the alarms or the doctors’ faces turn serious — she feels it. That quiet, gnawing worry that something isn’t right. Two days ago, that feeling began for one mother when her little boy, affectionately called

Bubs, just didn’t seem like himself. His smiles came slower, his eyes didn’t shine the same, and deep inside, her heart whispered: something’s wrong.

At first, it was just a subtle change. Maybe he was tired, she thought. Maybe it was nothing. But as the hours passed, her instincts grew louder. By the time she reached the emergency room, her fears were confirmed — Bubs was in trouble.

His white blood cell count had climbed to 15, a sign that his body was fighting something serious. His potassium had dropped dangerously low, and he was having seizures, his tiny body trembling in ways no mother should ever have to watch. The doctors moved quickly, preparing for a life flight to Texas Children’s Hospital, where specialists would run more tests and try to uncover what was happening.

In moments like these, time feels cruel. Every minute stretches, every second aches. All a mother can do is hold onto faith, even when her world is spinning.

But heartbreak has layers. As she prepared to leave for the hospital, she had to face another impossible task — saying goodbye to her other children.

Her daughter Maddy, still small enough to cling but old enough to understand, broke down in tears. “I not say bye to mama,” she sobbed. “Creeders not go to the hospital.” Her mother’s heart shattered right there, torn between two worlds — the one that needed her and the one that couldn’t let her go.

Trying to calm her, she reminded Maddy of their little breathing ritual: “Smell the flowers… blow out the candles.” It’s how they practice deep breaths when things get hard. Maddy sniffled, wiped her tears, and whispered, “It’s okay, mama,” before pressing a kiss to her mother’s cheek.

It was the kind of moment that pierces the soul — the innocence of a child comforting her mother, even as her own heart was breaking.

As she turned to leave, the weight of motherhood pressed on her chest like never before. Each step toward the car felt like betrayal. She wanted to scoop up all her babies, to hold them close and promise everything would be fine. But Bubs needed her — needed her strength, her presence, her unwavering love — and that meant walking away from the others, if only for now.

That’s the cruel reality of moments like these. Motherhood doesn’t give you just one heart — it gives you many, each living outside your body, pulling you in every direction. And when one of them hurts, all of them do.

Now, as Bubs lies in a hospital bed awaiting tests and answers, his mother sits beside him — tired, afraid, praying. The monitors beep softly in the background, a steady rhythm of both fear and hope. Every rise and fall of his chest is a reminder of what matters most: that he’s still here, still fighting.

The coming hours will be critical. Doctors at TCH will search for answers — what’s behind the seizures, the elevated white count, the drop in potassium. For now, all the family can do is wait, pray, and hold on to each other from afar.

And so, tonight, one mother’s plea echoes beyond hospital walls — a plea for healing, for strength, for faith that tomorrow will bring good news.

“Please pray for Bubs,” she writes, her words carrying both fear and fierce love. “Please pray for my other babies too.”

Because behind every strong mother is a heart that’s breaking — one that carries all her children at once, even when life pulls them apart.

May this night bring comfort. May the prayers lift heavy hearts. And may tomorrow bring healing for little Bubs — the light of his family, the fighter they’re all waiting for.